Chapter 48
by jmsutherland
Summary: Heading home.


**Chapter XLVIII**

Patrick's funeral was held at the little Omnian graveyard behind the temple. It was a small affair: just Blister and her family, Smite and his family and the staff of The Duck. Oh, and a hundred and fifty cops; all of whom had known him from the pub. He had been a popular barman: "fierce but fair", they all agreed. Kate thought that having so many Watchmen watching over his interment would have pleased Patrick enormously. The preacher had said that he had "gone on to a better place"; Kate, along with virtually everyone else, very much doubted this. Had they known where he actually was, they would have found it hilarious.

After the ceremony almost everybody went back to The Duck. A wake was not an Omnian tradition but it was a Watch tradition, and Patrick had died a Watchman. This particular wake was set to possibly wake the dead, as all the drinks were free; at least until all the drink ran out: this was to be The Duck's last day.

The reading of Patrick's will had been quite an occasion for all involved. Bruise and Sheara had been surprised when Kate had told them they were mentioned in it and, if truth be told, Kate was surprised that she was involved herself. The three of them, plus Smite and Blister had dutifully trooped along. It was very soon after his death but those had been Patrick's orders: he wanted it done before the funeral.

None of them had been expecting very much, -he was just a barman, after all1- consequently the sums involved had gasted all their flabbers.

Bruise and Sheara decided immediately to return to Fourecks to get married, and what a ripper of a wedding that was going to be. Kate was moving to Genua. Patrick had infected her with his love of the place and had even been teaching her the language.2 She would become a Grande Dame: she would live in a grand house, surrounded by handsome, young men who would tend to her every need. She would eat the finest food and drink the finest wine; she would become…fat! Or perhaps just voluptuous, she hadn't made up her mind yet, but she was keen to start deciding. She could hardly be bothered even to sell the pub.

Blister's first reaction was to give her whole, astonishing fortune to the Sisters of Kindness. If any man wanted a dowry before he'd want her, then she didn't want him. Smite had persuaded her to pause and at least take care of her family. She'd agreed that this was a good idea. And then she thought of The Patrick Thissel Orphanage for Waifs and Strays. After that there would be The Patrick Thissel School for Girls, where all the teachers would be women3 and then the…

For his part, Smite had no idea what he was going to do with his share; he'd had no idea that such an amount of money even existed. For the moment all he could think about was that his future wife was dancing on the bar with in her bare feet and that Harry's future wife was getting up to join her and do the same4. Kate wouldn't be far behind. It was going to be a wild night.

The next morning it was time for departure. Agnes had wanted to return via the river but Tiffany had squashed the idea.

"He's not your type," she'd said.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Agnes had said, indignantly.

"Yes, you do," Tiffany had insisted.

"Yes, I do," Agnes had admitted, blushing, "and what's wrong with that?"

"He's a pirate!" Tiffany had exclaimed.

"No, no, he's a river-boatman," Agnes had insisted.

"That's a cover. He's a pirate, and you know it."

"He's planning to retire,"

"Pirates don't retire," Tiffany explained, patiently, "they're born pirates and they keep on being pirates until somebody kills them."

"He might be different,"5Agnes had pleaded, though she'd known it was hopeless.

It wouldn't have mattered in any case because it turned out that they were going home in style.

The coach, an extravagance of upholstered and spring-suspended luxury, had been provided by the city,6 by way of thanks for all they had done, and would take them all the way to Rump where they would pick up their brooms. It was stuffed with all manner of delicious foods and drinks that were intended to "make the tedious miles less unpleasant" and that was certainly taking the edge off Agnes' disappointment at missing out on her boatman's holiday. The four handsome, young cavalrymen who would be guarding them all the way there helped a bit too.

There was a small party to see them off: Harry and Sally with Moo, of course, but also Lucy and Smite,7 Honeysuckle and Sacharissa, and also Big Morag and Wee Janet, for the seamstresses.8 Commander Carrot was there to represent The Watch, upright and dashing as always, along with an honour-guard of a dozen attractive, young Watchmen –all Omnians who didn't drink- who formed a line either side of their path to the coach's door. Tiffany was fairly sure she'd seen a couple of small, blue flashes earlier and assumed that when they got round to opening their enormous "picnic-baskets" they would find that pictsies had got there before them.

They'd tried to keep their goodbyes brief. They'd spent the whole of the previous day saying goodbye to Moo, after all, and they'd see her again soon too, wouldn't they? Even so, the first half hour of their journey was spent in a miserable silence.

"Moo was crying," said Agnes, eventually.

"I know," said Tiffany, simply.

"Moo doesn't cry like that."

"I know that too," Tiffany said, and then broke down.

The next half-hour of their journey was spent in tears

Finally, it was Agnes who took charge.

"Come on," she said, "it's not as if we're never going to see her again. Sally and Harry are bringing her up next month."

"Oh, I know," sniffed Tiffany, "it's just that…"

"Oh, woman up!" Agnes demanded, "and be sensible. And it's usually you having to explain that to me."

"I know," Tiffany moped, wiping her nose on her sleeve,9 "and I promise to be less condescending in future."

"Right, that's that then, finished," said Agnes,10 "Now, a bit earlier I had a look in one of these baskets and you'll never guess what I found."

"Really nice food and drink?" Tiffany hazarded.

"Very astute of you," Agnes congratulated her, "but more than that: there is an excellent, crusty, Genuan bread –fresh today; you can smell it- and a mouth-wateringly tempting slice of fat liver pâte."

"I have the feeling, from the look on your face, that there may be more."

"You bet your…!" Agnes almost exclaimed. "A bottle of Coûteux, 1789. And it doesn't get much more _more_ than that."

"A fine vintage, I take it?"

"When I lived in the Big Onion I used to sometimes be able to smell it when posh people were drinking it."

"I'll say that's a big YES. Let's go for it girlfriend," Tiffany managed to laugh.

When Agnes flipped up the top of the first basket she was surprised by what she saw; Tiffany wasn't.

"Good morning, Magnus," she said.

"Aye, an' a fine mornin' it is, Wee Lassie. An' guid mornin' tae you tae, Big Lassie," he added, for Agnes's benefit. She frowned back at him.

"To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Jist checkin up oan yeez," said Magnus, "me an' Beathan the Bam, here."

Just as Tiffany had thought, The Patrician's choices of food and drink didn't meet with the approval of the Nac Mac Feegle. However, they had managed to find a couple of things that were to their liking. The Agatean delicacy of Tián hè tián niúròu11 had gone down well, though they'd thrown away the fruit, obviously, and also a bottle of Leubail Ghorm. Tiffany didn't know much about whisky, but she could smell an expensive bottle when she saw it.

"In what way are you checking-up?" Tiffany wondered out loud.

"Jist makin' sure yeez are awright, an' thit yir sure it's safe tae leave the bairn wi' they bloodsuckers," said Magnus.

"We're fine," said Agnes, still huffy about being a big lassie.

"And they're good vampires," said Tiffany, "don't you think?"

"Aye, I suppose," Magnus conceded, "but we'll keep an eye oan the bairn fur a while, jist in case. And youz tae, an' the other bairn, as well."

And with that, they were both gone. For a moment Tiffany and Agnes just looked at each other, with puzzled looks on their faces, and then, simultaneously, they asked each other:

"Who's the other bairn?"

Through the rest of the day they ate and drank and laughed and speculated. When night fell, the coach didn't stop, but imp-lights came on and they went on too. When they couldn't go on any longer they fell asleep, on seats more comfortable than any bed either of them had ever slept in. When they woke up they discovered, not entirely unexpectedly, that there were some very effective, and weirdly interesting, hangover cures in the basket. And then they started again.

By the time they reached Rump they'd both of them got drunk and sobered-up three times. They'd also gorged themselves on luxuries that they knew that they'd probably never be able to afford to taste again.12 In the end even Agnes felt stuffed beyond her ability to dislodge and swallow that tiny bit of something that was stuck between her front teeth. And yet they had barely got half-way through the first of their four baskets.

"I'm sure the guards will help us out," Tiffany giggled.

"Especially that really tall one with the broad shoulders and the sparkling smile…"

"Oh, yes, him…" she agreed.

"Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes…"

Not only could the coach-driver hear their laughter; a couple of the horsemen could too.

When they finally got off the coach they were both not only clear-headed but steady on their feet, to the obvious astonishment of their bodyguards. As soon as the witches were out of sight the guards fell to fighting over the plunder –even the tall one with the shoulders and the smile.

When they managed to get to their alley, their brooms were waiting for them, all three of them. Of course, even an Orc wouldn't be mad enough to try to steal a witches broom13 but Agnes still found it reassuring to see them there. All Tiffany could think of was Moo's lonely, little broom.

"Do you think she looks sad?" asked Tiffany, distractedly.

"Who are you talking about?" asked Agnes, looking around her.

"Moo's broom," Tiffany unclarified, "she's slouching and looks unhappy."

"What are you talking about!?" Agnes demanded, "It's a branch with some twigs attached to it; it can no more feel unhappy than…"

She stopped, because both the other brooms were looking at her, angrily.

"You, go home!" she ordered the smallest of the three and it, dutifully flew off. Tiffany gave a sigh that could have swept a whole, un-remarked, civilisation off the face off its island home. And then they headed home.

It was, by far, and by the largest measure, the most uncomfortable ride that Agnes had ever had. While Tiffany sailed along up ahead as if she were in some sort of dream, Agnes' own broom seemed to be trying to throw her off. It kept ducking and diving, and twisting and spinning…until she felt she had to talk to it.

"Listen, broom," she said in her most authoritative voice, "you're wood and twigs and I own you. Sooooooooooooooooooooooo..!"

The descent was, quite literally, breathtaking. The broom was headed directly for the ground and it clearly didn't care.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…!" yelled Agnes as her hat flew off, her hair flew out behind her and sudden violent death flew up at her.

The broom pulled out of its dive so close to terminal breaking that she could have sworn that the heels of her boots had brushed the ground.14

"I promise I'll be nice if you will," she said, trying to placate the broom as it climbed back towards cruising altitude. She thought it must have agreed as it no longer appeared to be trying to dislodge her. Meanwhile, up ahead, Tiffany appeared to be totally unaware of her recent near-death experience, and so they flew on.

They had missed Nanny's funeral by quite a way, as Nanny had accurately predicted, but Tiffany had managed somehow to get word ahead15 that they'd like to see the Ogg clan, or at least a representative cross-section of it, so that they could commiserate, and also…and it was now gathered at Nanny's cottage.

When they arrived Agnes' broom stopped so suddenly that she shot off the front and nearly fell on her face. She span round and glowered at it, still hovering three feet off the ground.

"Clearly this is something we are both going to have work on," she scolded. The broom rustled its twigs menacingly. Perhaps she could walk home from here, she thought; the exercise would be good for her.

Inside the cottage the atmosphere was surprisingly jolly. Well, perhaps not that surprising, Nanny had always hated moping, and the new owners of the cottage had laid on some treats. Nanny had made it very clear that it was to go to Shane and Anamaria and their two, soon to be three, daughters.16 They'd provided a lot of red wine. Not that thin Genuan stuff but proper dark, rich Hersheban vintages,17 and Anamaria had made her empanadillas.

These were small, Hersheban pastries that could be filled with, well just about anything. Every cook had their own preferred fillings –some sweet, some savoury and some a mixture- but what set Anamaria's apart was family. Recipes had been being passed down, mother to daughter, for centuries and no good one had ever been forgotten. Meat, fish, fowl, vegetable, fruit…it was hard to know what was in any of them. What you did know was that were all delicious, that you could eat dozens of them, wanted to eat dozens more, and that you would not get two the same. In such circumstances happiness wasn't really to be wondered at. But somebody wasn't happy; really wasn't happy at all.

Tiffany thought that Margs' face was what had first made people start putting an extra "i" into the word "mischievous", because it just wasn't mischievious enough. There was no mischief in it now, or guile, or humour, or joy or… any one of the other things that were normally bursting out off it. It was just a picture of inconsolable misery.

Everyone said that she'd known Moo wasn't coming back before any of them had known that Tiffany and Agnes were, though no one knew how. She also knew that Moo would be coming to visit in less than a month but as, in Margs terms, a day could only be counted in years, that didn't help. Everyone else was ignoring her forlorn, little figure as it dragged its dejected way around the room. Not because they were heartless, of course, but because they knew there was nothing they could do to help.

Eventually, neither Tiffany nor Agnes could take it any longer and after thanking everyone, and advising them to stay clear of the North Field, they decided to head home. The whole way to Tiffany's cottage Agnes' broom behaved itself, although she could feel it thrumming between her legs with the desire to do otherwise. Perhaps it was because they were now flying side by side and at such a leisurely pace that it was possible to have a conversation.

"How did Margs know that Moo wasn't coming home?" Tiffany asked at one point.

"Moo told her, I suppose," Agnes replied.

"No," Tiffany said, "by the time she knew that, she could no longer do that."

"I don't know then," Agnes admitted, "is it important?"

"Probably not," said Tiffany and they lapsed back into silence.

At Tiffany's cottage her landing was far more conventional and she assumed that she and Broom had made up, at least for now. Tiffany invited her in for a cup of tea but she said she wanted to get home and would come round in the morning. And then she noticed Moo's broom lurking against the wall by the front door. She knew that it must be her imagination, but it looked almost as doleful as Margs had.

"What's that doing here?" she demanded, and heard Broom's twigs crackle behind her.

Oops! She thought.

"I don't know," Tiffany shrugged, "she probably thinks it's her home now."

What on the Disc do you mean by _she_ and _her_!? Agnes wanted to ask, but didn't. She wanted to get home safely, without being dumped in the river, or crashed into a tree. Still, it did remind her of something important.

"You know that _when shall we two meet again _doesn't really go with _thunder, lightening or in rain_, don't you?" she said.

"I know," Tiffany agreed, "and I've been giving that some thought."

"Really?" asked Agnes. She didn't think that Tiffany had been able to think about anything other than Moo for quite some time now.

"Yeees," said Tiffany, slowly, with a rather odd look on her face.

"Really!?" said Agnes, intrigued. She tried to think what girls might be under consideration, but she was stumped. And then an odd thought occurred to her:

"Oh, you can't really be thinking…" Agnes began. Then she paused: You can't be serious!" she cried. But she could tell immediately, from Tiffany's shrug, and the impish look on her face, that she was, indeed, serious.

"Margs!?" Agnes almost yelled, "are you bonkers!?"

"I'll be if you if you will," said Tiffany, with a naughty-girl grin and a sparkle in her eyes, that Agnes loved, "come on, it'll be fun."

"Obviously you and I do not define the word _fun_ in anything like the same way. It'll be a nightmare!"

"But a funny one," Tiffany laughed, and Agnes thought she could never tire of the sound of it. Eventually, she resigned herself to the inevitable.

"She's staying with you!" Agnes wanted to be very clear on that point.

"Of course," Tiffany agreed, laughing again, "I have a whole room of children's clothes for her to shred. And I'm used to cooking for four."

"Four?" Agnes asked, confused.

"When you came to visit," Tiffany explained, "otherwise it was only three."

Of course, thought Agnes, remembering Moo's appetite, and that Margs was no nibbler in that department either.

"Have you asked Margs yet?" she wanted to know, "and are you sure her mum and dad will agree?"

Tiffany just gave her a funny look. They were, Agnes had to admit, both silly questions.

"Ok," she said, with a resigned shrug, "I will if you will. When were you thinking of starting."

"Oh, I thought I'd leave it a while," said Tiffany, "if you come over for breakfast tomorrow we could go over together after that, and take her broom." There was much rustling of twigs.

Oh, that's right, girlfriend, don't give me any time to think about! She thought.

"Oh, well," she sighed, "I think I'll have that cup of tea after all. With some _apple juice_, if you have any.

"I have some under the sink," said Tiffany, clapping her on the back, "unless the pictsies have got to it. This is going to be the start of a wonderful adventure."

Agnes was sure that _wonderful_ wasn't really the right word.

1 He hadn't qualified as a hitman.

2 She found it infuriating that the same six words could be rearranged so that they could mean twenty-seven different things.

3 Just because they were better at it.

4 Moo was spending Tiffany and Agnes' last day with them.

5 The desperate illusion of women since time began.

6 Or rather by The Patrician.

7 Tiffany thought that all three vampires looked slightly more than their normal unnaturally pale. Perhaps with a tinge of grey to their skins.

8 Blodwyn had still not turned up, at least not as far as anyone was aware.

9 She thought that the last time she'd done that she'd probably have been about eight.

10 Invoking the age-old, wise women's words to put an end to all kids' fights.

11 Slices of raw steak and pear coated in syrup and sugar crystals.

12 "How do you stuff an olive with an oyster?" was merely one of the 467 questions they'd asked each other during the trip.

13 Though an Elf might.

14 And that her insides had hit it with an almighty splat.

15 Perhaps by some near-Death experience of her own.

16 The firstborn was named Esmerelda, -after Granny- the second was called Hechicera –after Anamaria's mum- and the one in her belly was to be Gytha. Apparently, she was already a "bit of a kicker".

17 Plus a few bottles of North Field, Tiffany and Agnes both noticed, with alarm.


End file.
